As the torches flicker and fall,
Flame on through the dew-dark wood;
Answer the thrill of the mad god's call
To the bitter end of the festival
With every drop of your blood.
Fear not. When back you steal,
Broken and weary, to me,
With oil and wine I will surely heal
Each bruise and hurt that your senses feel,
As I take you on my knee.
I will heal each hurt of your outraged soul,
Each mark of the wood-god's force.
I will cause the eternal sea to roll
With waves more pure than the boreal pole
Over your least remorse!